


I Know This Room, I’ve Walked This Floor

by nwspaprtaxis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Between Seasons/Series, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Grieving Dean, Heat Stroke, HoodieTimePrompt, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Episode: s05e22 Swan Song, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale, Protective Lisa Braeden, Sunburn, Tenderness, missing year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 01:44:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I used to live alone before I knew you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know This Room, I’ve Walked This Floor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sailoreyes67](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailoreyes67/gifts).



> **_A/N:_** So. This is my stupidly-late fill for **sailoreyes67** ’s [prompt](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/679457.html?thread=9334305#t9334305), which went thusly: _Missing year prompt! Dean is doing some work on the Impala, (we'll assume this was before he put it in storage, and could well be part of the reason he does that) when he comes across... something that reminds him of Sam (the possibilities are endless!) and he completely breaks down. He's standing in front of the car, shirtless, crying into the engine. Lisa comes out, and one thing is immediately clear: if he keeps standing there like that, he's going to get a sunburn. In fact, he already has. She gently herds a miserable, totally disoriented Dean inside and puts lotion on his back. Dean may or may not have gotten some kind of heat exhaustion, because he really is disoriented. Lisa copes._
> 
> Obviously, this fic occurs in the missing year after the big beatdown in _5x22 SWAN SONG_ and Sam throwing himself into the pit with no spoilers for anything afterwards.
> 
> Special thanks to **tifaching** for a rock hard beta and taking something that was raw and unedited and rusty from an ongoing writer’s block and making it at least somewhat shiny and polished. Also, **sailoreyes67** , I’m so sorry for the one-year-late, drive-by fill. I know you were hoping for art but I don’t draw and I hope this little thing makes your day all bright and shiny nonetheless!
> 
>  ** _Disclaimer:_** Do not own. Am not making a profit. Just simply having fun with their psyches and returning them slightly more battered to Kripke and Co. and all that Yada Yada. The title and summary comes from the Leonard Cohen song _Hallelujah_ , which I don’t own either.

She knows she’s in for another bad day when Dean’s absence in the space beside her brings her to awareness. She pushes the comforter aside and sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing sleep from her eyes, then rises to her feet. Dean’s side of the bed has been barely slept in. _Again_. She lets out a long, frustrated sigh. She knows he spent the night working his way to the bottom of a whiskey bottle. For the seventh time this week, thirty-third time since he turned up on her doorstep.

It’s not that she blames him, _per se_ , not after she’d seen the look on his face when she opened her door that night a month ago and the sheer decimation she heard in his voice when he tentatively asked if her offer of a beer was still good and the way he just curled in her hold, sobbing and clinging to her as though she was the last stable thing he had left. She knows his brother died saving the world — whatever that meant because he wouldn’t elaborate further, no matter how much she’d pressed and coaxed in the days that followed — and she figures the things he’s seen would be enough to drive anyone to drink. But, _still_. She’s got a kid and a life.

As much as she wants to help him, she’s aware she isn’t equipped for the job of patching him together and hoping the Elmer’s Glue and string and duct tape holds. Something is going to have to give and she won’t let Ben or the life she’s built for him here, with the yoga studio — all soothing yellow walls and pale hardwood floors like she’d dreamed of — she owns on North Main and the odd hours at the YMCA, be collateral damage. All of that comes first.

She lets out another steadying exhale and draws in a breath from her diaphragm, stretching her arms high above her head, palms pressed together, before bending down low and pulls the sheets tight before tucking them between the mattress and box spring. She smoothes the bedspread, ironing out the wrinkles with the flat of her hand, and sets the pillows at the head of the bed.

She kills the air-conditioner to save on energy and pads out of the still-cool bedroom and down the sticky, stifling hallway. Sweat gathers in the back of her knees and she knows it’s going to be another triple-H day — hazy, hot, and humid — without the NPR weatherman telling her so. She stops halfway down the hall and peeks in on Ben. His back is to her and, from the way he’s sprawled out and taken up the entire twin mattress, she can tell he’s still asleep. And she knows she’s going to need to upgrade his bed to a full within the next year, if the way he’s been growing this past spring is any indication. She shuts the door behind her, keeping in the cooled air, letting him sleep in on his first day of summer vacation, and makes her silent, barefooted way down the stairs, through the deserted living room, and into the kitchen.

Outside, there are faint sounds of someone working, the clang of metal on metal. _Dean_. He’d mentioned something about his car two nights ago when he’d gotten drunk enough to drop his defenses and let himself crawl between her covers to weep soundlessly into her hair but not enough to pass out or sleep more than a couple of hours before being tormented by dreams. She thinks she vaguely remembers hearing the garage opening in her sleep at some point in the stupid-early hours of the morning.

She fills the glass pot with water and sets it on the stove to boil even though the air is tacky and muggy, almost too much so to consider drinking anything hot. But she knows that Dean’s going to need coffee to sober up, to be halfway functioning in front of Ben. She slices a grapefruit into eighths and eats it while she waits, pulling the thick, yellow skin from the pulpy pink-red inside before popping the entire slice into her mouth, like an orange.

When the water is bubbling rapidly, she shuts off the heat and takes down two mugs from the cabinet, emptying two packets of instant Folgers into one of them and dropping an Earl Gray tea bag into the other. She pours the boiling water into both mugs, filling them equally and stirs, discarding the spoons into the sink with a clatter for later, and carries them to the front door. She steps outside, all bare feet and soft, stretchy boy-shorts underwear and spaghetti-strap camisole from Gap Body. It’s still relatively early; barely nine in the morning and already the sun is scorching. She sees Dean hunched over the engine of his mint-condition classic car, wearing nothing but boxers and the skin God gave him. He’s too red, the flesh across his shoulders vivid and tight looking. _Sunburn_. She sets the mugs on the concrete stoop at the bottom of the steps and goes to him.

His shoulders are shuddering and she carefully turns, so she can see his face in profile. It is crumpled up, wet with tears and she can hear the tiny, reined-in gasps of air as he stifles his sobs, one hand pressed over his mouth. He’s got the fingers of the other clawed around the valve cover. Wordlessly, she reaches out and cups her hand around his, then, carefully, she coaxes it to release the cap and takes it into her own. She picks up the rag and uses it to wipe the grease and oil from his fingers, massaging them gently. He lowers his hand from his mouth and blinks at her dazedly, pupils slightly uneven, not really registering her presence. “Let’s get you inside, okay?” She whispers softly as she tugs him away from the car. He stands there as she lifts the hood, setting down the long metal prop, and lets go, watching the lid slam shut.

He flinches at the sound but is pliable as she takes him by the hand and tugs him towards the open garage. Just when they’re about to enter, he balks.

“Gotta—” he slurs. “I gotta—” he pulls from her, lurches back to his car. “She shouldn’t…” He opens the driver-side door.

“Dean,” she says firmly, closing the gap between them. “You…” She trails off, not sure how to word the rest of her sentence. “You shouldn’t drive,” she finishes.

Dean squints up at her, flushed and unsteady even though he’s sitting.

“How about you just put it back in the garage, yeah?” She says softly, hands on the edge of the open door. “Just until you’re seeing straight?”

Dean’s face crumples and she’s afraid she’s said the wrong thing. Instead, he nods and lets her shut the door. He rolls the sleek, black beast into the yawning garage and shuts off the engine. She’s there, by the entrance to the kitchen, pressing the buttons to the automatic mechanism, closing the heavy garage door with a rumble, when he gets out on shaky, coltish legs. This time, he lets her take him by the hand and guide him through the house to the tiny downstairs half-bath.

She sits him on the toilet and turns on the cold-water tap, soaking a clean facecloth in the filling sink. Shutting off the water, she cups the back of his neck with the cool, dripping cloth. The skin there is an angry, livid red — the color of a cooked lobster — and she can feel the heat, even through the terrycloth. His face is still wet as she moves the cloth around his neck, dabbing gently at his throat, collarbone, and up in a wide streak to his face, careful not to abrade the surely-hypersensitive flesh. He closes his eyes as she washes away his sweat and tears.

She doesn’t say a word; her still in her pajamas, him still in his boxer shorts.

When he’s wiped clean, she opens the valve, releasing the sink of its contents, and takes his hand. He follows her, compliant and dutiful up the stairs and into her — their, she mentally corrects herself — bedroom. His feet tangle and he trips at the threshold, his hand catching the doorframe, arresting his fall.

“Okay. It’s okay,” she babbles softly as she catches him and presses up against his side, offering him a solid support.

“Where—?” he begins, his deep voice cracking into a higher pitch and making him sound years younger as they cross the room. His face is scarlet and she suspects it’s more than just sunburn.

She pulls back the sheets and pushes him down onto the mattress. He sits on the edge of the bed, both of his hands in hers. His gaze is unfocused, roving over his surroundings, and it’s clear he’s not tracking or taking anything in. His expression crumbles on itself and her stomach clenches hard. She crouches before him and slowly, gently, raises one hand to cup at his cheek. It feels rough, coarse, and she can see the beginnings of a beard. It’s growing in slightly ginger. She exhales slowly. “Dean, baby, look at me. Can you do that?” Her voice is firm, commanding.

Dean’s eyes settle on her but she can tell he isn’t really seeing her.

“I’m Lisa,” she says, fighting to keep her voice steady and even when there’s no answering flicker of awareness. “You’re in Cicero and you kinda got fried out there, but I’m gonna take care of you, okay?”

Dean shakes his head vehemently. “I know…” He visibly swallows, focuses on her, and his eyes seem clearer. It makes her exhale a small breath of relief. “I know where I am… who…” He aborts his sentence with a flap of his hand toward her. There’s a pause. Then: “Last time…” Dean’s voice is a low croak and she feels tears prick her eyes on his behalf when she hears how broken he is beneath his monotonous tone. “Last time, Sam did this…” he raises his hand slightly, gesturing at the bed, her, and lets it fall to his side. “Where is Sam?” he asks and in the next beat his face blanches, loses all color except for the luridness of his sunburn. “Oh, _damn_ ,” his voice splinters and shatters, brittle as glass. He pitches to the side, gagging, and throws up over the side of the bed.

He retches, tremors wracking his frame, and mixed in with the dry heaving she can hear him sobbing. His hand fists the loose sheets and he clenches them tightly as his stomach continues to try to turn itself inside out, to force out nonexistent contents.

“I’m sorry. Sorrysorrysorry,” Dean mumbles frenetically. “I’m so sorry. I… I’ll clean…”

“Shhh,” She shushes him gently, arresting his upward movement with her hand. It shouldn’t be so easy to keep him seated but she doesn’t look the gift horse in the mouth. “It’s all right,” she tells him. “It’s just carpet. Don’t worry about it.” She feels her smile slip off her face. “It’s not the first time I’ve ever cleaned puke out of a rug. You’re talking to a single mom here. It kinda comes with the territory.” She tries for another smile and this time it sticks. She reaches out, cradles his too-warm, flushed cheek with her palm, feeling the rough bristle of his scruff. “How about we get you lying down, huh? You’ll feel better.”

Dean nods at her words, his face screwing up and he looks even younger than Ben, all of his pain and vulnerability laid bare. She swallows, rattled. The last time she saw him so raw and pleading was the night he turned up on her doorstep and it’s not a look she ever wants to see on anyone again. She knows she won’t be kicking him out, not today, at least. Gently, insistently, the way she would if he was Ben, she eases him onto his side.

“Get some sleep,” she tells him, pulling up the thin sheet and draping it loosely over him.

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even acknowledge she’s there as she rises to her feet and goes to the air conditioner, jabbing at buttons until it gurgles on and cool air blasts into the room. She circles back to the bed and sits on the edge of the mattress, feeling him tuck himself around her hip as she settles her hand on his temple and strokes the short, sweat-spiked strands there. His hair is growing out, threatening to be longer than she’s ever seen it, but she doesn’t mention it as she continues the rhythmic, repetitive motion.

It works and his breathing shifts into something slower, more measured. Even in sleep, his grief is naked, suffocating.

She waits until she’s sure he won’t stir for at least an hour, and goes downstairs.

Ben is up, making cereal in the kitchen. There are two mugs on the counter.

“The front door was open.” His words are careful and guarded, and she can hear that he’s trying not to be accusatory.

“Thank you,” she says, kissing him on the side of the head before he can shrink from the affection.

She takes out another bowl, fills it with Honey Nut Cheerios.

“It was Dean, wasn’t it?” Ben’s voice comes again and before she can answer, he lets out a huff. “He’s drunk again, isn’t he?” It isn’t really a question.

She sighs, not knowing where to even go with this conversation. “I’m not sure,” she finally says, deciding to answer her son’s second question. “Do you want him to go?”

Ben shrugs, doesn’t meet her gaze. “He’s really messed up.” He takes a breath. “Like… _supremely_ messed up. He’s cool when he isn’t wasted, though. I don’t mind if he stays. Just don’t let him make you cry.” He picks up his bowl of Cheerios and nudges his shoulder against hers in silent affection as he carries it into the living room.

She hears the television come on and she steps from the kitchen island, abandoning the makings of her breakfast. She opens the door to the garage and turns on the light. Picking up the discarded tan tarpaulin from the cement floor from when Dean must’ve dropped it, she spreads it over his car, covering it up once again.

Her hand lingers on the tarp-covered metal. “Damn you, Sam,” she whispers.

She doesn’t give it a backward glance as she shuts off the light and closes the door, leaving the Impala in darkness.

She’s got puke to clean up, an alcoholic to dry out, and a class of geriatrics to teach at eleven.


End file.
